


or someone that i used to be, or someone that i will be, or someone that i am right now

by princesapollobollo



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, started making this. had a breakdown. bon appetit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27867149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesapollobollo/pseuds/princesapollobollo
Summary: You sit in a cliff next to the sea, at night, and wonder how terrible you could have possibly been to make everyone so uncomfortable whenever you show up. It’s not the same with everyone, you think as you trace the rocky jagged edge, and isn’t that almost worse? You think about Fundy, bitter, angry, sad, and even if you can’t really remember why you feel something twist inside. You think about Phil, warm but watching with haunted eyes whenever he thinks you’re not looking. You think about Tommy looking at you like a stranger.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	or someone that i used to be, or someone that i will be, or someone that i am right now

**Author's Note:**

> hello i am writing for fucking. block game rp now i guess. wilbur soot stop making me sad 
> 
> disclaimer that this is written ONLY about the fictional dream smp characters but if any creators express any type of discomfort w stories like this ill take it down! also if you look at this with any shipping intentions i will fucking stomp you to death with my hooves
> 
> also i have to be real i wrote this in like an hour and a half while being very upset so take it w a grain of salt  
> content warning for losing time/dissociation (or like. similar stuff just based on my own shit), blood, a few mentions of scratching and hair pulling. be safe!

You're not sure when it starts. 

You're sitting in your house one day, flipping through your books, keeping half an eye on the potions bubbling on your desk, and then the next thing you know you're in the middle of a forest, trees all around you. The moon shines silver over the leaves, and you stare at it, confused, because you know it was just morning. You float in a circle, taking in your surroundings. It's deadly quiet, calm and eerie. There's a wet heavy feeling in your chest. You don't look down. 

By the time you make it home it's morning again. You push it aside. There's no need to worry, or even think about it. 

The next time it happens, you don't come back to yourself alone. You blink, blurry vision coming together, and Tubbo is waving a hand in front of you, frowning. Niki is watching with wide, worried eyes from behind him. 

“Wilbur?” He says, and it sounds like it’s not the first time. You try to give him a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t sit right, teeth clenched together and the corners of your lips twisted. Tubbo’s gaze turns more puzzled, and Niki’s mouth sets firmer. 

“Are you okay?” She asks, soft, and you blink twice. Your body hasn’t felt fully right since you woke up like this, but right now it doesn’t even feel yours. You crane your neck and try to smile again, but it only makes their frowns deeper. You raise a hand to your mouth and press cold, blackened fingers to the curve of a sneer. You drop the hand, and the smile. 

“Yes,” you say after a long moment. Both of them politely ignore the way your voice warps and reverbs. “I’m okay! Just, you know. Zoning out.” Something wet is dripping on your hands and into your lap. You don’t look down.

Tubbo and Niki do, though. You feel – something, at the way they gasp and grimace at the – at whatever it is they’re looking at. 

“Wilbur, are you _sure_ you’re okay,” Tubbo starts, and you really would rather not do this right now, or ever. You jump up from your chair so quick it startles him into silence. 

“All good!” You smile, arms wide, and this time the smile settles familiar and easy, though you still have half the mind to reach up with your hand to see if your mouth is actually moving. “Just ghostly business, no need to worry. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you babble, and you can see Tubbo frown and open his mouth to argue, so you turn around and start fiddling with your potion supplies. You hear them shuffle around for a moment, indecisive, and you tense. Your hands curl around the neck of a bottle and there’s a flash of — something, bright and loud. It fades in time for you to hear the door shut behind them as they leave, and you’re relieved. The memories you get aren't worth remembering, these days. 

* * *

These… _episodes,_ they ramp up in frequency. You think so, at least, but you really can’t be sure. There’s nothing that marks one day from the next, and so it becomes hard to keep track. You start avoiding people a bit more, because you don’t want anyone to find you like this again. 

You sit and think a lot. You sit in a cliff next to the sea, at night, and wonder how terrible you could have possibly been to make everyone so uncomfortable whenever you show up. It’s not the same with everyone, you think as you trace the rocky jagged edge, and isn’t that almost worse? You think about Fundy, bitter, angry, sad, and even if you can’t really remember why you feel something twist inside. You think about Phil, warm but watching with haunted eyes whenever he thinks you’re not looking. You think about Tommy looking at you like a stranger. You trace the hem of your sweater.

Would they be better without you, you consider. You’re not sure. Running away or isolating yourself feels like the coward’s way out, but maybe that’s your thing and you just don’t remember it. You have to do better, you think to yourself, but you can’t remember how. 

You float down the cliff and lower your hands into the water. The moonlight paints them light gray.

* * *

You keep losing time. It gets worse, the way you come back to yourself. You curl up and make yourself small and dig your nails into your arms, even if you can’t really feel it. Pain lances through your chest and unwelcome memories flash, too quick for you to register them. You pull on your hair, kick out your legs. You cry, maybe, but you don’t make any sound. 

It fades, eventually, and it leaves you numb and empty until it, too, goes away. 

You get better at recognizing when it’s going to happen, because your head starts feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton, and your movements start getting disjointed. People get used to you leaving on a rush suddenly when you’re hanging out, scrambling to have your little fits somewhere _away._ You’re not sure if they’re indulging your practically nonexistent remaining sense of pride, or if it’s just a relief when you leave. You don’t really want to ask, but it pulls at your chest anyway.

Except when it happens with him, Phil doesn’t let you get away with it. You’re floating next to his house, hanging lanterns next to the windows that illuminate the night with a warm glow, and Phil is watching you from the stairs, laughter in his voice as you swirl around.

He makes a joke — something about carrots, you can’t remember— and you smile and try to process the words, but your brain is all static. You look at the lanterns tangled in your hands, your vision already far-off, and you suddenly can’t be holding anything. The lanterns drift down softly in the wind. Phil makes a soft noise of surprise and it’s only then you remember he’s still there. You open your mouth to make your excuses, but all that comes out is a garbled noise. You swallow, and try again. You manage a low, buzzing hum. Phil has gotten up from the stairs.

“Wil?” He asks, soft, and you’re already overwhelmed. You shake your head, and resist the urge to cover your ears like a child. “Hey, bud. You mind coming down here?” He’s achingly gentle, and you have to fist a hand on your hair to not scream. You’re still making that buzzing sound, and you don’t know how to tell your vocal chords to stop. It sounds like radio static. You drift down, clumsy, and curl yourself into the nearest windowsill. You scratch your nails against the wood and it splinters beneath your fingers.

Phil appears next to you, at some point. He sits on the little cranny on the inside of the window, not crowding but present, and you _hate it._ It’s much easier to just let yourself go, disappear and come back later, unaware. But Phil keeps whistling, and shifting, and being _there,_ and it builds you up and up and up.

“Does this happen a lot?” He asks, and you laugh. It comes out as a crackly screech. “Oh, kid,” he murmurs, and you have to gasp for air suddenly. 

There’s something wet dripping from your mouth, flooding your mouth and your lungs and your chest. Your ribs are cracked, and when you press your hand against your abdomen it comes off wet. Phil stares, horrified. You’re so tired. You look down.

A gap has opened in your chest, tender and red like the day it happened, and you watch as blood pours into your sweater. It never stains, but it smells so strong of copper it gives you a headache. You curl your arms around your knees and the strain makes more blood dribble down your chin. 

“Wil,” Phil says, and then stops. He sounds heartbroken. You rub your eyes. 

“You should leave,” you mumble, and your voice is thick with static and blood. There’s a hand on your shoulder, then, and careful pressure on your arm as Phil turns you around. He curls a hand around your cheek and you lean into it, tears pricking at your eyes, because it’s been _so long_ since anyone touched you at all.

“C’mere, son,” he says, and cradles you in his arms. There’s an ugly sob building on your chest, and you think you might scream instead.

“I’m getting blood all over you,” you choke out, and then burst into tears. Phil doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even shush you, only holds the back of your neck with a warm hand and rubs circles on your back with the other. It makes you feel small, and protected. It makes the stab wound hurt even worse.

“I’m tired, dad,” you whisper, and Phil hums.

“I know, kid, I know.” He cards a hand through your hair, and you break down into fresh tears. “We’ll figure it out.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can see me lose it in real time on [twitter](https://twitter.com/biglichenergy?s=09) and [tumblr](https://princesapollobollo.tumblr.com/).
> 
> i have to be up in 6 hours i will edit errors tomorrow thank u for reading!!!! i love you
> 
> title from i don't know from ghost quartet please listen to it


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